


First Is The Worst

by volunteerfd



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: (not one of the main characters), Art, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Coming Out, Graduation, Growing Up, Jealousy, Sibling Rivalry, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into our little sister's shadow. Or, Tahani's lifelong (failed) attempts at carving out a piece of life for herself, and the one time she succeeds.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	First Is The Worst

When Kamilah became the youngest person to have an exhibition at the Met, Tahani started painting birds. Not just any birds. When you looked closely, the birds were actually made of detritus. Water bottle seagulls with icepicks for beaks, owls with saucer eyes, little hummingbirds made from scraps of wrapping paper. She considered doing sculptures instead, but that would require using actual trash, and the idea of rummaging through garbage heaps was unthinkable. With art, it was the thought that counted. Execution was tertiary after connections. Or quaternary, after persona. 

Anyway, it was harder to paint something that looked like a water bottle that looked like a bird. And it was a brilliant commentary about pollution. If she couldn’t be the youngest to have an exhibition at the Met, maybe she could be the youngest to have an exhibition at...the Tate? And that would be more prestigious, because it was in England, not America.

When she had a respectable oeuvre, she marched into the living room and announced, “Father, I am pursuing my own art. It’s political.”

“All art is political,” Her father muttered, bored. He didn’t look up from his book.

“Well, mine is especially so.” She cleared her throat and adjusted the painting in her hands, hoping that her father would glimpse the movement out of the top of his eyes. He didn’t glance up before declaring it underwhelming.

She’d been prepared for that. She threw her shoulders back, forced her chest out, and said, "Well, I will try again. And I will keep trying until I am a talent in my own right.” For all she knew—and she hoped this was the case—her entire life was a test of her resilience. Her parents’ snipes and jabs, the comparisons—she did not actually fall short of Kamilah; her parents only wanted to see the strength at Tahani’s core. One day, through tears, they’d reveal their ruse. “We’re sorry, Tahani, we had to make sure you were a worthy heir. It was torture for us.” Tahani would allow no more emotion than a small, gratified smile and the grace of forgiveness, because she’d known all along. 

Presently, though, her father’s eyes remained dry and fixed on the newspaper. “I don’t suppose your time would be better spent elsewhere.” 

Tahani’s face fell. 

“And don’t pout. You don’t have the face for it—not like Kamilah.”

* * *

Tahani toiled to graduate early. It would have been easier had she compromised her standards a bit--settled for an A- in a class, dropped either Model U.N. or Model ACLU, ditched her internship with RBG. Maybe she didn’t need to step in as Chief Editor of Vogue...No, she did.

Sure, her relationship with John Mayer fell by the wayside, but they weren’t really  _ doing  _ anything together, and besides, she couldn’t put “fooled around with John Mayer for a bit” on her college resume. And, OK, sometimes the sleep deprivation got a little scary, but she was almost always able to distinguish between the hallucinations and reality. Eventually. She wasn’t happy, but she would be on the day she made her valedictory speech.

In her darkest moments, of which there were many, the valedictory speech kept her going. An audience of her peers and their families would look up at her, heeding her every word, knowing she was the best of them. Then she’d confirm her superior status by delivering the Gettysburg Address of valedictory speeches. 

Best of all, it was an honor that Kamilah could not snatch away. Yes, Kamilah was on track to graduate early-- _ two _ years early, in fact--but that still kept her a year away from Tahani. Next year, when Tahani would have to sit through Kamilah’s theatrics and applaud politely for an inferior speech, at least Tahani would have had her day--and had it first. Tahani's speech would be fresh in everyone's brains by then, and when Kamilah spoke, the listeners' minds would drift to the last summer, almost a year to the day, when they heard the speech that changed their perception of valedictorians--nay, of all oration.

_ Eat your heart out, David Foster Wallace,  _ she thought as she scribbled bon mots into her Italian leather journal.  _ Who’s laughing now, Colbert. _

Finally, the day arrived. 

Tahani sat on the stage, her speech in her hand. Of course she’d memorized it, but the papers made her seem relatable, fallible, human.

She was taken aback when Kamilah sat next to her on stage in graduation garb. It was either a performance art stunt or a “sociological experiment” or...or maybe she wanted to be supportive? Tahani would find out later; right now, she had to focus on her speech and not give Kamilah attention.

“...and it is my pleasure to announce our valedictorian. Truly, not enough can be said about her,” the Dean of Studies said, her voice hitched with the breathlessness of an avowed fan. “We all know her. We all have individual impressions of her, indefinable moments in our hearts, too precious to weaken with words. Every day, she astounds us.” The dean removed her glasses to wipe away a tear, and Tahani, in turn, felt her eyes well up. She breathed them back. She couldn’t cry before the speech. There were five designated moments for carefully placed emotion, and pre-crying would throw the whole thing off.

“Today,” the dean continued, “she astounds by graduating not one, not two, but  _ three  _ years early! Yes, that’s right, she excelled in a full courseload here, and worked with the staff at Le Rosey and Cours Moliere to triple up on credits. Today she graduates as valedictorian, no less! And, most amazing of all, she kept it a secret until today. I need not ask you all to welcome Kamilah al-Jamil, because I know she has already been welcomed into your souls.” 

The two sisters rose at once. They walked to the podium together. Tahani, with her longer legs, made it there first, placed her hands on either side of the rostrum, and faced the audience. Her birthright.

And then she noticed her sister standing next to her, face impassive. The Dean of Studies hemming and hawing awkwardly behind them. A voice shouting from the crowd, “Move out of the way! It's Kamilah, Tahani! Not you!” Her mother’s. Lovely.

She opened her mouth, blinked, replayed the dean’s speech in her head. 

Kamilah had graduated three years early without breaking a sweat. 

Her plight was so sweatless that no one knew, no one even suspected, until the perfect moment.

* * *

Tahani had only one boyfriend who remained loyal to her. It was not a victory.

The relationship ended, as many do, out of nowhere, in the living room. Tahani lounged in the living room, looking at paint swatches. She and Raj had not officially moved in together, but if they were going to get married, Raj needed to get used to the idea. Nothing staked a claim more than redecorating. 

She heard Raj approach the couch and airily said, "Darling, what do you think about--"

“Tahani, we need to talk. Your sister came onto me.”

Tahani sat up and put the paint swatches away.  “Yes, she does that."

Raj went over the details: the electric touch of Kamilah’s fingertips on his hand, the spark in her eyes. Tahani bit back a comparison to a downed powerline. She barely listened, anyway, too busy calculating her next steps. Without Raj saying so, Tahani knew they’d slept together. No one turned Kamilah down. The only questions that remained were for Tahani to answer. If Raj asked to come back, would she take him? Yes. She’d forgiven far less adequate men for the same injustice. But would  _ she  _ ask _ him _ ? Maybe. She’d begged for the return of slovenly trolls as if she should be the one desperate for companionship, for an opportunity to try to redeem herself after  _ their  _ indiscretion. And though she’d vowed never to demean herself like that again, Raj was different. He was fit and well-groomed, not like Pete or Seth. If she had to sell her soul one more time, then Raj was worth it.

“...but I couldn’t do it,” he concluded.

“You--you what?”

“I couldn’t go through with it.”

_ I found him,  _ Tahani thought.  _ I found  _ him. The one person who would choose her over Kamilah. The calculations vanished, replaced by fantasies of their wedding. She’d ride in on an elephant. An elephant named Fidelity.

“I couldn’t betray Kamilah’s trust.”

“Wait, what?”

“Tahani, I’m gay. 

Tahani blinked. 

“Well, that’s--that’s good for you, dear. I’m very supportive. And honored to be the first person you came out to.”

“Second.”

“Second. Of course.”

“Kamilah and I had a great talk.”

“Great!” She smiled through gritted teeth.  _ Don’t make this about yourself, don’t make this about yourself,  _ she repeated to herself. “So…What does that mean for me?”

“Uh.”

“For us, rather.”

“Well....”

Raj explained that there was no "us." There had never been. He went on and on about how he’d never truly been "myself," and now that he was ready to live his truth--thanks to Kamilah--it wasn’t fair to him--to either of them--“oh, or to you, Tahani”--to go on with his life the way it had been before.

“So you’re...dumping me,” Tahani muttered.

“I’d prefer to think of it as...freeing ourselves and each other. Kamilah taught me that.”

Tahani strangled her mouth into a smile. “Lovely.”

Raj nodded, satisfied. It had gone well. Tahani mimicked his smile.

"Awesome. Oh. She's coming over to redecorate, would you mind clearing out before she gets here?"

* * *

She knew her friends would like Kamilah more. It was a fact of life, not worth getting upset over any more than the Krebs cycle. And so what if they did? It didn’t mean they liked her any less--well, OK, that was exactly what it meant. 

It was better than jealously guarding her friends. History showed that wouldn’t work. The more she fought against fate, the more it hurt when the ultimate futility revealed itself. She was no better than Oedipus--well, OK, she was a lot better than Oedipus. She’d learned her lesson without accidentally marrying one of her parents and without gouging her eyes out: Don’t fight destiny.

At least if she controlled when and where of the situation, it might hurt less. She couldn’t risk Chidi and Kamilah hitting it off at a conference or Eleanor and Kamilah hooking up at Lilith Fair or Jason and Kamilah--she couldn’t imagine how they’d find each other, but somehow. She would take them to one of Kamilah’s openings. Tahani would set the events in motion: “Kamilah, these are my friends, my friends, this is Kamilah,” and they’d fawn over her and her art, then gush about her talent every day for as long as they all lived.

At least for the first part of the night, they would be  _ her  _ friends. Sure, they weren’t as flashy as her previous dates (of recent history, Harrison, Scarlett, and Zayn). But it showed she was a woman of the people, like when she brought comedians, salt-of-the-earth folk like Pete, Seth, Lena, and Jerry.

At the exhibit, she kept her distance. Interference could turn them against her completely and push them even closer to Kamilah. Eleanor seemed content to stare at the artwork eating shrimp , and Chidi conversed with similarly-dressed academics. Jason, who she’d worried would cause a ruckus, had gathered a considerable crowd around him as he shared his musings about art.

She’d introduced them to Kamilah, but other than a couple of attempts at conversations that ended quickly--dare she say rather abruptly--they barely spoke at all. Before long, the night was over. They said overly-polite good-byes and piled into the car.

Tahani didn’t venture to ask what they thought about the art or her sister, nor did her friends offer that information. Tahani drove in silence, rephrasing questions in her head. She didn't trust herself to get the tone light enough or the phrasing adequately casual, so she never spoke up.

Eventually, Eleanor did. “I didn’t want to be the one to say this, but that exhibit _sucked_ ,” Eleanor said, with such eagerness that it was clear that she _did_ want to be the one to say it. “Does the world really need one more fake-deep art installation where people’s heads are replaced by cellphones? Wow, people use technology? Move over, Banksy!” 

“Some people think that my sister  _ is  _ Banksy," Tahani said, just to see if Eleanor would change her mind or double down.

“Well, even if she is, fuck Banksy!” The outburst was, unexpectedly, from Chidi. Tahani almost swerved. “No true subversive could sell their artwork for millions of dollars. If he were fighting the system, the elites would be trying to silence him, not fund him.” 

“The art was stupid,” Jason agreed. “It didn’t even have words on it. Garfield always has words. Not too many, though. That's what makes good art."

_ That exhibit sucked...The art was stupid...Fuck Banksy... _ Tahani wanted to close her eyes and etch the words on the back of her lids in tacky neon lights (but she didn’t because she was driving).

“But you found my sister charming, didn’t you? Everyone does.” She tried to make the slight quiver in her voice sound airy and flippant instead of nervous. 

Dead silence.

“Charm is subjective,” Chidi said after a while. “I, personally, er, I can see why other people might be drawn to her...carefully, clearly painstakingly, cultivated aura.” 

“She reminds me of people I went to high school with who wore all black even though it was hot all the time, and one time I tried to wear all black and I fainted, but also I didn’t drink water for six weeks, which the doctors told me was a problem,” Jason said.

For years, Tahani had mentally rehearsed what bad things she’d say about her sister once a confidant presented themselves. Terrible things, truly eviscerating barbs with deft wordplay and bullseye-accuracy, the likes of which had not been heard since the Algonquin Round Table. But years passed, and no opportunity arose, and at that moment she found herself lost for contribution. 

But the tides were changing. She had no need to contribute. In fact, she could be truly beneficent and defend her sister--express gratitude, no offense taken, but artists' lives are so difficult and Kamilah had accomplished a lot at such a young age and worked so hard...She could bring herself to show growth and transformation, just as destiny had done tonight.

“Could you...say more mean things about Kamilah?" 

"Oh my God," Eleanor said, throwing her head back. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
